The Man Who Never Was
by johnsarmylady
Summary: It's a very fine line between Genius and Insanity... AU. Rated T - just to be safe. ALERT! REVIEWS HAVE SPOILERS!
1. Crime Scene

**This little story came to me during a boring lunch break at work. I hope you like it, and if you do maybe you can help me with a little problem I have... I don't know whether to write more, or leave it as a one-off...read it and let me know what you think I should do. Thanks.  
Disclaimer: Don't own - not for want of trying though!**

"Oh Shit, it's the Freak again." Sally Donovan groaned. "Why does the boss always have to bring him in?"

Anderson shrugged a sour expression on his face, which turned to a sneer as his eyes followed the tall curly haired detective's progress.

"Have you seen the way he's taken to holding up the cordon tape, as if he wants us to see that he's here? Bloody show-off!"

"He's just getting weirder by the day." Donovan smirked, adding "At least we don't have to stand and listen to his self-righteous drivel any more, not since Lestrade banned us from being in the same room as him at crime scenes."

Both officers turned their backs as Sherlock walked past, leaving it to a uniformed constable to direct him to where the body lay.

"Ah Lestrade, what have you got for us?"

The Detective Inspector pointed to the body.

"Her Mum came round to see her, the front door was open, and this is how she found her."

As Lestrade was speaking Sherlock was moving around the body, looking at it from every angle through his magnifying glass, taking in every detail. Then he stepped back and waved a careless hand in the direction of the dead girl.

"What do you think John?"

He stood and watched as the doctor examined the body, and listened carefully to his observations and thoughts, and then he turned with his usual haughtiness to Lestrade.

"Knives can be a man's or a woman's weapon, but as you heard John say, the slashing of the face points to jealousy, or possibly a woman who felt threatened by our victim's looks." He started for the door, still speaking as he went. "Talk to the boyfriend, ask him about the woman he jilted for her."

Watching the younger man's retreating back, Lestrade sighed and pulled out his mobile. The call was answered on the second ring.

"Mr Holmes? Detective Inspector Lestrade. You asked me to keep you informed of any changes in your brother's behaviour. Well, he has just left out latest crime scene, and I'm afraid that now he's actually talking out loud to his imaginary assistant."


	2. Afterwards

**Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to continue this story. **

Sherlock knew it was coming, and the measured tread on the stairs alerted him to the fact that Lestrade must have made the call as soon as he had left the crime scene.

Watching through narrowed eyes as his brother crossed the room; he could read disappointment in his face.

"What now, Mycroft?"

"I'm sure you know why I'm here Sherlock." The older man replied. "Mummy is becoming increasingly concerned with your erratic behaviour; she has insisted that I book you into the Cumberland Clinic…"

"I'm not in need of rehabilitation Mycroft, and I don't have mental health issues. I just need to be left alone."

"Alone? Are you alone here?" Mycroft sounded sceptical.

"Not at the moment," his sibling snapped back, "you're here."

"I'm afraid, brother dear, you have no choice. Mummy was insistent, so I have booked you in. Fortunately your old room there was available."

"It's not my 'old room'" Sherlock growled, leaping to his feet. "It just happens to be the room you put me in to 'cure' my habit."

"However you choose to view it, that is where you are going – either voluntarily or under escort from my men – and you are going now."

The younger man glanced over his brother's shoulder at the two dark suited men standing just inside the doorway.

"I suppose I should go and pack."

Mycroft smiled. "Unnecessary. I'll have some clothes packed for you and delivered to the Clinic."

With a disdainful sniff, Sherlock turned away and started sifting through the loose papers on his desk, grabbing a clean sheet and a pen, scribbling a hurried note.

_John,_

_I shall be away from the flat for a short while. Make yourself at home until I return. _

_SH_

Folding the note carefully he wrote the name J. Watson on the outside and pinned it to the mantlepiece with his knife.

Staring hard at the older man, daring him to say anything, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and led the way downstairs.

"Just make sure your minions don't touch anything but the clothing they need to pack for me - this isn't an excuse for you to rifle my belongings!" he drawled as he climbed into the car.

xXx

Greg Lestrade sat in his office, slowly writing up his report, wondering about the recent change in his unconventional, unpaid consultant.

Sherlock Holmes had burst into his life almost five years before, when he was a bored and friendless junkie and Lestrade was a Detective Sergeant struggling to solve a particularly gruesome double murder.

At first he had instructed a Detective Constable to arrest the fast talking, hyperactive young man who was frankly making a nuisance of himself at the crime scene, but later, when he was called down to the cells by the custody sergeant, the rapidly sobering genius proceeded to outline the type of person they needed to look for, and even suggested where to start looking.

With no other possible leads to follow, Greg had taken a chance and made discrete enquiries. The result had been a swift and righteous arrest, catching the perpetrator in the act of attempting to murder his third victim.

His reminisces were disturbed by the sound of measured footfalls, crossing the now deserted outer office. Looking up he saw the slightly sinister older Holmes brother walking towards his open office door, his expression carefully neutral as he knocked and walked in.

"Inspector Lestrade, I've come to thank you for your prompt action regarding my brother's behaviour, and to inform you that he is, unfortunately, back in rehab. I'm sure you understand that this means he will be unable to assist with any more of your cases for the foreseeable future."

Greg frowned at the other man.

"But he's not using again." He protested softly. "He knows I will have no choice but to ban him from crime scenes – he loses the cases and I lose a valuable assistant. I would know if he had slipped back into his old bad habits."

"We shall see. His doctors will start with a full spectrum of bloods and other physical tests." Mycroft smiled briefly. "Before a complete range of psychiatric checks are made."

xXx

Sherlock had learned a long time ago that the only way to get out of the Cumberland Clinic was to play along, submit to the test and checks, until finally they report back to Mycroft (or most likely Mummy) that there is nothing amiss.

So he grinned at their surprised looks when his blood tests all proved negative for illegal substances, and welcomed the invitation to join Dr Lewison for 'a chat'.

This was the third such invitation in as many days, and Sherlock strolled along the corridor to the doctor's consulting room with a smile on his face and an air of tranquillity, knowing that they wouldn't see through the act.

As usual, Dr Lewison invited his patient to take a seat, but his next words surprised the younger man.

"Now today Sherlock, I don't want to talk about you."

"Do you not?" a frown creased the high, pale forehead. "I thought that was the whole point of my stay here, for you to talk about me."

"Does it bother you that today will be different?"

"Not at all." Sherlock's face cleared, and he smiled at the man sitting opposite. "Although I confess to being intrigued about who it is you do want to talk about, and I have to advise you that I won't talk about Mycroft – I haven't a clue what goes on in that odd brain of his."

Lewison laughed and shook his head.

"No, I want to talk to you about your new friend, John is it?" his pen hovered over his notebook, and he looked expectantly at Sherlock. "Are you happy to do that?"

"My new flatmate? If you wish, what do you want to know?" Crossing one elegantly clad leg over the other, Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and watched the doctor carefully.

"Let's start with how you met him. Were you introduced to him? Or is he an old friend, a friend from uni?"

"Neither actually. I'd discussed getting someone to take the second bedroom in my flat with the landlady; she was agreeable and suggested I put an advert in the window of Speedy's, the café downstairs."

As his patient spoke, the doctor made notes and wrote down all the pertinent points.

"I had written the card out, and was about to take it into the café, but as I opened the front door John was standing there."

"That was a mite strange, don't you think?"

Sherlock grinned.

"Not really. There is another flat, a set of basement rooms, and Mr Chatterjee who runs the café had mentioned it to John. He was on his way to enquire about it when we bumped into each other on the front step."

"And you just offered him your spare room?"

"Do I really look that stupid Lewison?" Sherlock sighed. "I could see at a glance that he was a professional person, he is in fact a doctor, and having seen just how damp the basement flat is, I suggested he might like to reconsider."

"Which he did."

"As you say, he did, but not until he had seen for himself the state of 221C."

Lewison had the distinct impression that the young man in front of him was deliberately wasting time, drawing his story out, but he played along. It took him another hour to get the whole story of how, after a couple of visits later the offer of a room had been made and accepted, and he was surprised to hear that on the day Sherlock was admitted to the clinic, his new flatmate had been due to move in, having stayed at his old lodgings until the lease expired.

"Just one last question for this session." The doctor looked up from his notes. "Can you describe him to me?"

"Describe him?"

"Yes, I want you to describe this Dr John Watson."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock tipped his head back and took a moment to think, then his eyelids lifted and he pinned the doctor with a piercing stare.

"He's approximately five feet seven inches tall, blond hair, blue eyes. I suppose you might say he's stockily built, but not carrying excessive weight." He smiled slightly. "Oh, and he wears the most appallingly old fashioned checked suits, with either a bow tie or a cravat, and he has a penchant for wearing hats – all kinds, from old fashioned pork-pie hats to panama's, I've even seen him in a bowler hat. It wouldn't surprise me if he owned a top hat too, for special occasions."

Standing up, the consulting detective straightened his suit and extended his hand to his doctor.

"Same time tomorrow then, Lewison?"

With a nod Lewison saw him out, then pulling his telephone towards him, he dialled the number of a well-appointed office in Whitehall.


	3. A Revelation

"Mrs Hudson, are you sure about this?" Mycroft was exasperated. His brother's landlady was far too trusting.

"Of course I'm sure." She ran a hand over her short mousy hair, flattening imaginary flyaway strands. "Sherlock asked for the key to 221C, said he had a possible tenant, but apparently the man didn't want such a damp flat." She glanced sadly at the door to the unwanted flat. "It's the mould, you know…"

"Yes, yes, but what about this tenant? I understand he should by now have moved into the upstairs room of 221B, have you seen him?"

With a patient sigh, Mrs Hudson looked up at her tenant's brother.

"I'm their landlady Mycroft, not their housekeeper; it's not my job to keep tabs on everything they do. Your brother has explained that John Watson is a doctor, and therefore likely to keep less than regular hours." She turned to go back into her own flat. "And until they fall behind on the rent, I don't intend to badger them, so if that is all you wanted I have work to do."

And with that she closed the door in Mycroft's rather surprised face.

Returning to his car, he spent the journey back to his office on the telephone to Doctor Lewison, arranging to meet with him the following day.

xXx

Since Sherlock was in no way made to feel like a prisoner in his room – a state of affairs that he found to be a great improvement on his previous stays at the clinic – he had taken to wandering the extensive grounds.

It was not that he had suddenly developed a taste for the great outdoors; he was in fact making a mental note of where the CCTV cameras were placed, and looking for weaknesses in the surveillance coverage.

Yesterday evening, after his talk with the doctor, he finally found what he had been looking for – a blind spot, where neither camera nor window overlooked the perimeter wall. Knowing that an escape attempt would only result in Mycroft bringing him back, and maybe having him locked in as he was before, he chose instead to return to his room and keep this piece of information to himself for the time being.

Now, in the dead time between breakfast (served in bed and ignored), and lunch (a posh buffet that contained more rabbit food than a forest glade- also ignored), Sherlock returned to his new place of refuge, clambered up and sat atop the six foot wall, waiting. It wasn't long before the sleek black car came into view – Sherlock had known that sooner or later his brother would want to discuss the doctor's findings, and it hadn't taken a great deductive leap to realise that yesterday's conversation would bring him running.

Giving his older sibling enough time to get to Lewison's office, Sherlock jumped gracefully down from his perch and strolled back around the gardens, eventually arriving outside of the doctor's office window. It was clear by the tone of the discussion that Mycroft wasn't happy with what he was hearing.

"Dr Lewison," Mycroft sounded angry and impatient. "Do you actually expect me to believe that my brother has set out to deliberately deceive me? That this is some kind of practical joke?"

"To be honest Mr Holmes, I think that's exactly what it is." Lewison sounded unperturbed by the other man's ire. "Your brother's physical examinations show no sign of recent drug abuse, and he is calm and cooperative in our discussions."

"Calm and cooperative are not adjectives I would generally use when describing Sherlock."

"Of course not," The doctor smiled. "But then siblings rarely see beyond what they want to see of each other. In the past few days Sherlock has described your actions as restrictive, controlling even, yet he appears untroubled by it, in fact I'd go so far as to say resigned to it."

Mycroft tapped the ferrule of his umbrella against the heel of his shoe, his expression hard and calculating. Lewison sat with his hands clasped loosely in his lap, waiting.

"I can't say that I'm happy," Mycroft said at last. "And I'm sure our Mother will feel the same." He raised an enquiring eyebrow. "What do you intend to do next?"

"As of now your brother is free to leave. He doesn't pose a threat either to himself or society, and as he clearly wishes to return home I have signed his discharge papers already."

Holmes was clearly furious, but not a flicker of it showed on his face.

"And if I don't wish him to leave? You are being paid to treat him."

"There is nothing wrong with him, nothing for us to treat. You have to understand, this isn't Bedlam Mr Holmes, you can't just put your inconvenient relatives in here and leave them to rot, that practice died out years ago. Your brother is fit to go."

Outside the window Sherlock smiled to himself, peeling himself away from the wall where he had been leaning, listening to the conversation, and with his hands thrust deep in his pockets he sauntered back to his room, expecting his brother to be knocking on his door at any moment.

xXx

With a deep sigh of relief, Sherlock sat back in his armchair and sipped his cup of tea. Despite his amusement that his brother didn't get his own way, he had wondered if he would find himself removed from London and placed in Mummy's care in the family home in Sussex.

A familiar scent caught at his nostrils, sparking memories of his early childhood yet also alerting him to the arrival of his new flatmate. As he glanced up he saw the older man had a finger to his lips, and his eyes flicked up towards the bookshelf. Sherlock frowned.

John cocked his head towards the door and turned to walk out, pushing his bowler hat onto his head, draping his overcoat over his arm and picking up his small suitcase.

Quickly grabbing his own coat and scarf, the consulting detective ran down the stairs after him.

In silence, they walked slowly to Marylebone Road, neither man speaking until they turned right towards Marylebone Station.

"Your brother has hidden some sort of photographic contraption amongst the books on your shelves. I didn't think it wise to discuss my plans in case he has also placed recording equipment there."

Sherlock stared at the shorter man.

"Are you sure?"

"Two smartly suited men were in the flat this morning, I don't think they realised I was there."

"Plans?"

John smiled back at him.

"There are a series of medical lectures that I will be attending at a small hospital in Princes Risborough. I'll be gone for about a week."

"Why don't you want my brother to know?"

The smile faded, and he looked up at the younger man.

"There are some papers under a loose floorboard in my room, between the bed and the chest of drawers. They are old, very old, but I think there's something of a mystery about them." He paused as they reached the station concourse, slipping two fingers into his waistcoat pocket, pulling out and checking his ticket. "I'd like you to take a look at them."

"They're probably old newspapers, stuffed down there to help deaden noise…"

"No, it looks like a journal." Blue eyes looked up almost pleadingly into grey. "There's something about it – Oh I know you'll call me sentimental, but I truly believe there is a story to be told, a puzzle to solve."

A sly look passed over Sherlock's features as he thought of ways he could confuse and confound his brother, starting with reading a lot of old papers and staying in the flat.

"Go on John," He said aloud. "You'll miss your train. Rest assured I'll look at your old papers, and we'll see if you're right or just sentimental!"

Sherlock smiled and waved, and as his new friend disappeared amongst the press of travellers, he turned to leave, not seeing the strange looks he was getting from the station staff and passengers.


	4. Words And Ages Past

**I like to thank all of my reviewers as they review, but unfortunately with guests, or those who disable PM's that isn't possible. So, to those whom I cannot respond, especially Tara, whose reviews never fail to make me smile - THANK YOU!**

John's room was neat and tidy, the bed looked freshly made and there was none of the detritus of occupancy on any of the surfaces. To Sherlock however, this meant very little – the doctor had only been in the room a few days and had probably not had time to unpack his things properly, especially as he had planned a working trip to Buckinghamshire.

Pushing all other thoughts to the back of his mind, he sat on the edge of John's bed, near the chest of drawers, and looked down. Even to the naked eye the gap in the floorboards was obvious, but when he shone his torch into it he could see the dusty outline of a book.

Moving from the bed Sherlock crouched down and tested the board – sure enough it was loose, and as he slid his fingertips along the edge it lifted easily, revealing the perfect hiding place. If it occurred to him to wonder how he had missed this when he first moved into 221B and spent days learning all its nooks and crannies, he didn't let it detract from the puzzle his new flatmate had left for him as he reached in to liberate the journal from its cosy niche in between the joists.

As it came free, so did a large dust cloud, and for the next few minutes Sherlock was incapacitated by a fit of sneezing as the thick grey particles swirled around him, sticking to his face where tears streamed from his watering eyes, but as the motes settled and redistributed themselves he pulled himself back onto John's bed and peered closely at his new found treasure.

The book was about the size of a hardback novel, covered in tooled leather, and held shut with two intricate and decorative brass clasps. Turning the journal over in his hands he could feel anticipation snapping at the edges of his brain, and he decided to get started on this puzzle straight away.

xXx

Back in the living room, having cleaned the worst of the dust from his hands and face, Sherlock turned his attention to the tome now sitting on the desk by the window. The cover of the journal was a revelation in itself – as Sherlock carefully wiped the cover clean, he saw the tooling was actually a representation of a coat of arms, and a swift check on his Blackberry showed it to be that of the Royal College of Physicians.

Keen eyes examined every inch of the leather binding. There were minute signs of wear beside each brass clasp, where the writer's thumb slid across to catch under the shallow metal lip before lifting it up. The spine, also tooled, was softer, due to the 'massaging' the leather received every time the journal was used, as it was carried from room to table and back, the natural oils transferring from the owner's skin keeping it supple.

So thorough had his examination of the outer cover of the journal been that the light was beginning to fade. Pulling the curtains he switched on the standard lamp beside his armchair, made himself a cup of coffee, and settled down to read.

At first the writer seemed only to make entries into the journal when he had something special or extraordinary to write about, and the artist in Sherlock found a degree of pleasure in the aesthetic beauty of the Victorian English or Palace copperplate handwriting. He also found interest in the everyday life of a man who lived more than a hundred years ago and in the things that he thought significant enough to write about, such as the day he finally left Netley as a fully qualified Army surgeon, and again the time he spent sailing to join his regiment in Kandahar.

There were some detailed descriptions of the injuries he had treated, and the methods used to treat them, that teased the scientist in his modern reader, and piqued his curiosity.

That same curiosity kept him reading deep into the night, as the tale unfolded of a secondment from his regiment, the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, to the Berkshires. An entry dated 25th July 1880 read ominously _'We move west, towards Maiwand. There is an air of fear and expectancy as we journey towards a rough and hilly land where we know the Afghan forces are massed and waiting.'_

Lifting his head from the book, Sherlock reached for his phone and Googled 'Maiwand 1880'. Information about the battle that took place two days after that entry flashed onto the screen, and he read and filed the knowledge away in his mind palace for future reference.

After this, the writing of future entries appeared to get a little unsteady, and Sherlock wondered at the cause. At the back of his mind however, his new flatmate's voice was reminding him that Mycroft was possibly watching his every move in this room, and not wanting him to arrive and start demanding to know what book had kept the younger man up reading all night, he feigned a yawn, took his cup out to the sink, and then made his way to bed, turning lights out as he went. Once settled into his pyjamas and with his pillows piled high against the headboard, Sherlock opened the book once more.

The next entry was written some nine months later, with a tale of a bullet wound and enteric fever, the health of the writer being irrevocably damaged, rendering him useless as a surgeon and therefore to the army.

Over time his health improved and he was offered work at the London Hospital, working as a general doctor, having the care of recovering patients. His surgical knowledge made him useful for catching possible problems with post-surgery patients, and he was quite content with his opportunity to continue his work in medicine.

Entries charting his life, from his chance meeting with Sir Frederick Treves and Joseph Merrick – and some acute and frankly funny descriptions of the gentry that flocked to become friends with the once ostracised and tormented young man – to his marriage to one Mary Morstan in 1889, the man painted the story of his quite ordinary life in such a way as to hold Sherlock's attention.

Dawn was pushing her pale fingers through the gap in the bedroom curtains when the author's life once more took a turn for the worst. At about this point, the need to relieve himself drove Sherlock from the bedroom, and marking his page with a slip of paper torn from one of his old notebooks, he slipped the journal safely under his mattress, intending to return to it straight away. As he left the bathroom however, he heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, and he waited for the knock on the door.

"This is early, even for your Lestrade." He said shortly as he opened the door. "How did you get in?"

The Detective Inspector flushed slightly as he stepped through into the flat.

"Mrs Hudson was kind enough to give me a key to the outside door – said she was fed up with being woken up at times when any self-respecting landlady should be asleep."

"Well yes, between you and my dear brother she is disturbed far too often." The younger man turned away and walking into the living room flung himself down in his chair. "What do you want?"

"We've got another murder…"

"No."

Lestrade's jaw dropped, and he stared open-mouthed at the consultant detective.

"But you never refuse to come to a crime scene!" He gasped when he finally found his voice again. "We need you."

"Do you not understand the Queen's English, Lestrade? I said no." Sherlock watched as bafflement joined confusion in the other man's expression. "You called my brother – I doubt I had even got out of your line of vision before you were dialling his number. He put me in that God-awful clinic for four days, and for what? Was it because you don't like my new flatmate? Or because the two of you begrudge me my new-found friend?"

As hard grey eyes stared up at him, Lestrade felt the as if the ground shifted under his feet. He had no answer for Sherlock, as sudden insight showed him that was exactly how it looked.

"I… Look Sherlock, I'm sorry – I should have spoken to you first, but your brother…"

"Asked you to spy on me." Sherlock finished the sentence for him, standing once more and holding out his hand. "I'll take that key if you don't mind, you have betrayed my trust, and I should hate you to do the same to my landlady."

"You'd walk away from your work with Scotland Yard?" The older man was incredulous.

"There are other Detective Inspectors." Came the cold response.

xXx

For a long while after Lestrade had left, Sherlock stood staring out of the window, watching the pink/grey light brighten to become another bright and busy day on Baker Street. He was surprised at how unrepentant he felt about throwing Lestrade out of the flat, and with a smile he turned back to his room, ready to read the next entries in the journal.

Retrieving the book he settled down once more, leaning back against the pillowed headboard, his feet drawn up to his bottom, allowing room for the book to rest on the slope of his long thighs. Carefully opening the journal his eye fell on an entry date that was smudged, as if something had been spilt on it. As he read, he realised the cause of the smudging had been the writer's tears, and despite his dislike of emotion he found he couldn't tear his eyes away from the words on the stained page.

_On this sad Saturday, 31__st__ of August in the year of our Lord 1895, my darling Mary and our son John succumbed to this latest outbreak of scarlet fever that sweeps through the streets of East London – why oh why did I not move out of town, instead of insisting that we stay near my work? Now both are gone, and to make matters worse I have received word that my brother Harry, the brother that looked out for me and cared for me in our childhood, is also brought so low with the fever that he is_ _not expected to live. My sister-in-law Anne askes me to come, but how can I when my own beloved is barely cold._

Sherlock read on, realisation dawning – for the first time he felt he truly understood how emotion could affect even the most intelligent of people.

The author, in his grief, could no longer live in the house he had shared with his wife and child, and sought lodgings elsewhere. Within six months he had taken a room in a house, sharing the cost of the lodgings and the services of an elderly housekeeper with a fellow professional.

Those lodgings were at 221B Baker Street, and the author was one Dr John Watson.

**A/N: **

**Copperplate script was common in the Victorian era, and often the country of education could be deduced by the style. There were two predominant styles, French and Palace, Palace being the English version, and the one that my grandmother used so beautifully.**

**Joseph Carey Merrick was better known as The Elephant Man, and Sir Frederick Treves was the surgeon that befriended him and found him lodgings in the London Hospital. Many rich upper class ladies followed Princess Alexandra's example and visited him, befriended him, and invited him to share their rented boxes at the opera or theatre. Merrick died, aged 27, in 1890.**


	5. Research and Developments

Although his expression may have been read by others as 'stunned', it would be more truthful to say that as every light in Sherlock's mind palace switched on at the same time he experienced an epiphany.

Straightening out on his bed, he stared upwards, to the room upstairs and his mind started ordering the facts as he knew them. There was more to his new flatmate, the man who had caused such consternation among his family, than he had originally supposed. Sherlock wondered what Mycroft would say if he were to be given access to the information that his younger brother held in his hands.

Finally pulling his thoughts back to the journal he picked it up again, reading rapidly through the entries, learning how gradually the death of the Watson's wife, son and older brother were put into perspective. His guilt had been palpable in the entries immediately following the event, but now his common sense was coming to the fore, and in his written thoughts he outlined his plans to help support his brother's widow and young son, by staying in these comfortable but relatively cheap lodgings, and saving as much money as he could spare to help his nephew achieve his dreams.

Sherlock noticed that the wit and humour that was so prevalent at the start of journal had gone, and in its place some astute views of the evils of living conditions in London. A new sense of purpose broke through, as he persuaded those in power at the London Hospital to let him work unpaid in the laboratories, to help find cures for some of the deadlier ailments that ran rife in squalid backstreets.

The entries became less frequent, although some contained quite detailed notes of the doctor's research, and Sherlock promised himself that once he had finished reading he would go back and look more thoroughly at this scientific treasure trove. Until then, he continued to build up a picture of a man stoically trying to get on with his life, and determinedly putting others before himself – traits he'd already seen in his new flatmate.

The next change in the good doctor's life came less than two years after the tragedies of loss, and the catalyst was none other than his sister-in-law, Anne Watson. During a trip to London to visit her late husband's solicitors, she called at 221B. Dr Watson wasn't at home, but his colleague, the other lodger, invited her in and entertained her until he came home.

There were more visits, combining business with pleasure, but Dr Watson became increasingly worried about his colleague's behaviour. The man, a fellow doctor by the name of Coates, was at first the picture of propriety, inviting the housekeeper to join them for tea if John was still at the hospital, or allowing the man and his sister-in-law privacy while they discussed family matters, but gradually Coates became more forward in his behaviour, telling the young widow that the housekeeper was too busy to join them, then closing the door and sitting far too close Mrs Watson's comfort. One particular entry was sharply indicative of his concern.

_Estate matters brought Anne to London once more, and with business done she thought it would be pleasant to call in at Baker Street to see me, yet I returned to my lodgings to find her sitting very uncomfortably in my favourite chair. Coates had pulled his chair so close that his knees were almost touching her, and he was leaning towards her in a most obnoxious fashion._

_I strode in, and asked him to move away. He smirked at me – actually smirked, and pointed out that my sister-in-law was a lonely lady, with a child who needed the guiding hand of a man. I was incensed! Did he think he was the man to offer that guidance? I would have punched him then and there had Anne not cried out in distress, and pleaded with me to take her back to the station._

_As we strolled to along the pavement, she confided that this wasn't the first time Coates had made her feel uncomfortable, with his unwanted closeness and suggestive remarks, but when I pressed her to tell me what was said she refused, looking so distraught that I dared not continue to question her._

_Needless to say once I had put her onto a train home I rushed back home, furious with my colleague – for I am loath to call him friend anymore – but he laughed in my face and said that after all, the woman had been alone for too long now, that she needed a man. _

_I'm not proud of myself. I bloodied his nose and blacked his eye, and then I told him that under no circumstances would I allow him to speak to Anne again. _

Sherlock found it difficult to understand the emotions of the author, but he could understand the anger – he had met Mrs Hudson when he had done something very similar to her last husband, just before turning him over to the Bonifay City Police Department in Florida. A scowl of remembrance narrowed his eyes as he read on.

For another year the two men shared the flat, but trust had been lost and Watson grew increasingly certain that his rooms were being searched, and his personal papers read. A draught of his will had gone missing, little things were being moved about, and he wrote in his journal that he while was sure that Coates was to blame, he had no evidence.

Then came the very last entry.

_Today I received a chilling letter from Anne. She believes that she has seen Coates sitting in a carriage watching her home. It appears to have happened on more than one occasion, and she fears he may try to force himself upon her. This confirms my suspicion that he had indeed been reading my correspondence, for how else would he have found Anne and her son?_

_I decided that I will stand no more, and while I waited for him to return from his work at the hospital I put pen to paper, and wrote a telegram to my sister-in-law advising her to seek the assistance of her local constabulary. I wrote a second to an old friend, Inspector George Godley at Whitechapel police station, asking his advice, and have persuaded our landlady to take them both to the telegraph office straight away._

_Before Coates returns, I must pack for my journey tomorrow to Princes Risborough, where Almroth Edward Wright, an eminent scientist and doctor has kindly agreed to test my theory of a vaccine to protect against Typhoid Fever. And I wish to put this journal, and my other papers, into a safe place, one that he will not easily find. When he returns I intend to take him to task about his ungentlemanly behaviour, and to advise him that I will be leaving these lodgings just as soon as I can find somewhere else. _

For a long moment Sherlock gazed unseeing at his bedroom door, thoughts churning like a storm-tossed sea. The puzzle was clear to him now, he could see each and every beautiful piece, and his mind was already craving the final picture, the template for putting it together – evidence.

A noise broke into his thoughts, that familiar measured tread up the stairs, and swiftly he pushed the book out of sight, so that when Mycroft walked uninvited into his bedroom the younger man seemed to be simply bored and staring aimlessly into space.

"You wouldn't be bored if you had agreed to help the Detective Inspector." Mycroft stated blandly.

"I would have agreed to help him if he hadn't agreed to spy for you." Sherlock countered, his eyes fixed on a dirty smudge on his bedroom wall – the result of a minor mishap with some home-made sodium nitrate.

"He wasn't spying, Sherlock. He was concerned for your health – we all are."

"And your pet psychiatrist has verified my sanity. Get out, Mycroft."

"I want you to help Lestrade."

"And I want to be free of your interference in my life – neither is likely to happen now, is it brother dear?"

The older Holmes swung his umbrella up, and stared myopically at the ferrule.

"What would it take for you to assist with this case?" Mycroft didn't look at his brother. If he had, he might have noticed the gleam of triumph in those keen silver eyes. He continued, "Mummy doesn't want the poor man's career to suffer because he was persuaded to help us, and she has asked me to offer you whatever you want…"

Sherlock struggled to keep the smile off his face. Every line of his brother's body, every nuance in his speech screamed distaste at having to utter these words.

"Access." He said shortly. "Access to the files of unsolved cases."

Mycroft let the tip of his umbrella fall to the carpeted floor.

"Do you have a particular case in mind?"

"Old, latter half of the 19th Century." Sherlock was deliberately vague.

"You want to solve the Jack the Ripper case?" the older man sneered.

"Common" grey eyes rolled. "I want to look through the cases and see if there is something there worthy of my effort."

The silence between the brothers stretched, until Mycroft reached into his pocket, withdrew his mobile and sent a short message to his Girl Friday, Anthea.

"You will have free access by the end of the day."

"For as long as I need?"

Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock swung his legs off the bed and stood up, shrugging out of his blue silk robe.

"Are you going to stand and watch me get dressed?" He asked, continuing to remove his pyjamas. "Maybe it would be better if you leave me to get ready while your assistant makes the arrangements for me. Tell Lestrade to text me the address….oh and close the door properly as you leave."

**A/N:  
The first telegrams were sent in the UK in 1837, and the last in 1982.**

**In 1888 Inspector George Godley, then a Sergeant at Bethnal Green Police Station, was transferred to Whitechapel to assist Inspector Frederick Abberline of Scotland Yard in the investigation of the Jack the Ripper murders.**

**The first vaccine against Typhoid Fever was developed by British bacteriologist and immunologist Almroth Edward Wright in 1897 – and I thank him for allowing me to attribute it to Dr John Watson for this story only.**


	6. Secrets In The Files

Ignoring the stares and sneers, Sherlock once more stalked into the crime scene, intent this time not only on the puzzle before him, but the promise of the greater puzzle to come.

Lestrade managed to keep from him how pleased he was that the younger man had deigned to help, though he was less successful at hiding his inquisitiveness.

"You are looking for someone, Inspector?" A coolly arched eyebrow cast disdain over the other man.

He had the grace to look chastened, having been caught looking around to see if Sherlock's new friend was with him.

"Uh… I wondered if…"

"John is away at a medical conference." Glancing first around the car repair shop, he then turned and crouched beside the body before adding "Although I thought you were of the opinion that I was just making it up – my _imaginary_ friend?"

Even though he was facing away, Lestrade felt the full force of Sherlock's sneer, but wisely chose to say nothing. Instead he stood ready, waiting for whatever light could be shed on the murder.

"He lives on his own?" Sherlock asked finally. "No one to notice that he hadn't been home?"

"Lives in the flat above the garage." Greg confirmed, stepping a little closer and jerking his thumb towards the adjoining building. "His name's Bennett. He generally visited the care home to see his elderly mother a couple of times a week. When he missed one visit, they just assumed that he was busy, but yesterday he was due to meet with her Principle Care Manager to discuss her on going care package…."

"Yes, I don't doubt." The response was dismissive. "And he's been dead for at least four days, looking at the state of the body and the early stages of putrification"

"The smell gives it away too." Anderson's voice from the doorway was thick with sarcasm. "Despite the howling gale blowing through here, the air is full of it."

"Anderson…" Lestrade growled. "You're not supposed to be in here."

"Oh, because the freak doesn't like it…."

"Frankly I don't Anderson, but not for the reasons you think."

"And I don't want you here – this job is hard enough without you two bickering, so while Sherlock's here Anderson, you're not. Once he's gone the room is yours."

Anderson sucked his teeth in a gesture of annoyance, but Sherlock had already turned away and was studying the dead man's workshop, paying particular attention to some half-welded car parts and a selection of bottles and rags.

Pulling on a pair of latex gloves he bent down to examine first the arc welder, then the car parts, and finally the bottles.

Picking up bottle nearest the rags, he stood and slowly looked around the room.

"Surprisingly, Anderson's right about the gale blowing through here. Was it open like this when he was found?"

"No," Greg frowned, trying to remember exactly. "It was all closed up, but a neighbour spotted a light in the window." He met the younger man's questioning gaze. "He's an elderly gentleman, usually goes to be before it gets dark, so he hadn't particularly noticed the lights on until early this morning."

"When you first came to Baker Street." Sherlock stalked around, looking at the doors and windows, nodding to himself as he closed one of the doors and noted the large gap between the door and the floor.

"Right. Something had woken him up, and he decided to make himself a drink. He can see the garage window from his kitchen." Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, Greg sighed. "The chance of catching his killer quickly is slim, Sherlock, but I'll take anything you got."

The younger man walked back to stand beside the body once more.

"Well, he wasn't murdered, so you can stop worrying about a perpetrator." Sherlock allowed himself a small smile as collectively the jaws of all those officers present dropped.

He waved the bottle at Lestrade.

"He was welding – no great surprise to you to hear that I'm sure, given the half-finished welding project and the Sealy Arc-welder placed beside it." Seeing he had their attention, Sherlock nodded. "This bottle contains brake cleaner – a basic degreaser, and no doubt Mr Bennett here used it to clean the car parts he was about to weld."

"Your point being?" Anderson had moved back into the doorway.

"Maybe you can assist me in my demonstration?"

"What? No, Sherlock. Anderson, shut up or go back to your office. Sherlock, if something Mr Bennett did in here killed him, you can't use Anderson to demonstrate!"

"Pity."

"Sherlock…."

"Well, let me give you all a chemistry lesson. The chemicals in this bottle, when exposed to the UV rays of the arc welder turns into a very interesting gas… Phosgene."

As one, the collective personnel of the New Scotland Yard team took a step back, some slipping out of the various doors or getting closer to the windows.

"However, if there were significant amounts left in here you'd all be dead or seriously ill by now. You'd know it by the smell of musty hay." He let his eyes sweep round the garage at the expressions ranging from disbelief to relief. "Just be a bit careful of dips and hollows…. it can hang around in pockets." And with that he swept out, calling back over his shoulder as he went.

"All yours Anderson."

xXx

With a smug feeling of satisfaction, Sherlock strode past the stunned Sergeant in charge of the Metropolitan Police Archives. The man had tried to refuse him entry, only to find that Sherlock's name was not only on the list of authorised visitors, but with no restrictions and open ended access.

Aware that he wouldn't be allowed to remove any files without first getting permission, he quickly studied the layout of the room, looking for blind spots and safe areas, and then he set about pulling out files.

He was sitting at a table with files relating to the Great Coram Street murder of 1872 open in front of him when the duty sergeant, standing beside him, coughed to get his attention.

"What?" Sherlock didn't even bother to look up.

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes; I need to lock the archives." The officer resisted the impulse to shuffle his feet as piercing grey eyes finally flicked up to his. "You can come back tomorrow…"

Flicking the flies shut, the consulting detective stood up and rolled his eyes.

"It's no wonder crimes take so long to solve around here, it's barely five o'clock and already you want to go home." A long slender finger tapped the files. "I want to take these files with me."

"I…I'm sorry sir, I have to get clearance for you to have these."

Closing his eyes and sighing, Sherlock shook his head.

"And how long will that take?"

"Well, I'm sure you can come and pick them up tomorrow. It's just a formality with cases this old."

"Send them to me by courier." Writing the Baker Street address on a scrap of paper Sherlock handed it and the files to the officer, and then pulled on his coat and scarf and walked away, leaving the young man staring after him.

Sherlock managed to keep up the bored and frustrated act until he was in a cab and heading home. Allowing a grin to break out, he reached behind him and started wriggling. Catching sight of the cabbie watching him in his rear view mirror, he grinned wider and raised an eyebrow – the cabbie hastily looked away.

Satisfied, Sherlock shifted, leaning slightly to one side, and then pulled out from behind him two manila files – each one headed 'Missing Person', and showing the name Dr John Watson.

Meanwhile back at New Scotland Yard a call was being made to Mycroft Holmes, informing him of his brother's choice of unsolved murder, just as Sherlock had suspected would happen.

xXx

Grabbing a few hours' sleep on the couch – knowing his brother would be watching – Sherlock then made a great show of still being tired and bored, and slouched off to his bedroom, where he had hidden his filched files. Throughout the night he read every scrap of information they contained, learning everything that was known about the strange disappearance of Dr Watson.

Two days after the last journal entry, Inspector George Godley was making enquiries both in Baker Street and in Princes Risborough regarding the whereabouts of his friend Dr Watson, and his notes at the time expressed concern that he had not arrived as planned to his meeting with Dr Wright, nor had his housekeeper seen him since the day before he was due to make that meeting. Her testimony had been frustrating as no sooner had she sent Watson's telegrams, then she went to spend a week with her son and his family. She had returned home to an empty room and the news that Dr Watson had changed his lodgings.

Godley had expressed concern that such a normally stable doctor should disappear without a word to his sister in law or his employers. However, other officers had noted that testimony from Dr Coates drew a very different picture of the missing man.

Coates had insisted that in the months leading up to his disappearance the doctor had become increasingly morose, blaming the world for the loss of his family, even at one point suggesting that he would be better off dead. He pointed out that the man had attacked him for no reason, leaving him unable to work until the injuries healed.

The Inspector was unconvinced and called in the police photographer to record details of the whole house, from Watson's room, down through the shared rooms, Coates bedroom and even the landlady's quarters, the street outside, the front of the house and the kitchen garden. These photographs were still in the file, neatly annotated by Godley, and referenced within his notes.

To this he added another report, one that noted how police officers in Amersham, Buckinghamshire had cause to speak to one Dr Coates about his disturbing behaviour, warning him to stay away from the house and person of Mrs Anne Watson, widow.

Carefully putting the notes and photographs back into the files, Sherlock stashed them safely, and made his way to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. Taking his mug, and a slice of the cake that Mrs Hudson had left on the kitchen table for him, he wandered into the living room and curled up into his chair.

To Mycroft, watching from his intelligence centre, his brother was just sitting idly waiting for the files from the archives. In truth, Sherlock was carefully going over the information he had gleaned from the original case notes, and adding it to the knowledge he gained from the journal.

Absent-mindedly the young man broke off pieces of the rich fruit cake and popped them into his mouth almost in rhythm with the cataloguing of facts. His coffee grew cold, yet he didn't notice, swallowing it down and putting the mug aside as his mind immersed itself deeper within the mystery of John Watson, Victorian doctor, the man who became his flatmate, the man who never was.

xXx

The sound of knocking at the street door roused the consulting detective from his reverie, and he waited for the sound of his landlady's footsteps on the stairs. He was on his feet by the time she tapped at the door of the flat, and opened his door with alacrity.

"Ah Mrs Hudson, they finally sent the files." He snatched the sealed package from her, turning to the kitchen and opening it, pulling the manila folders out onto the hastily cleared wooden table.

"Manners, young man." She scolded gently. "Now just you take care of whatever's in there – I had to sign to say it would be returned in the condition it was sent." The look on her face fond yet resigned.

"Yes yes, they're safe with me." Sherlock chivvied her out of the door, and alone once more, slipped into his room to retrieve the photographs from the other files.

He was certain the answer was in the photographs, and using the cover of the Great Coram Street files he could sit in comfort, and study them closely.

Hunched over the kitchen table, magnifying glass in hand, he took in every detail of the grainy black and white photographs, pausing when he came to one that had clearly been supplied by Anne Watson, showing two grave faced gentlemen in wedding suits. On the back, written in what was clearly a woman's hand, was the legend 'My dearest Harry, with his brother John'.

Turning it over once more, Sherlock stared into the face of the man he believed had accompanied him to crime scenes, the man he had seen onto a train to Prices Risborough just two days earlier. Refusing to even contemplate mawkish superstition, he committed the picture to memory and moved on.

Time and again he returned to one particular photograph, reaching back into his mind palace for references within the case notes. He was almost certain he had a major piece of the puzzle, and was on his way to check this when another thought occurred to him and he detoured to the living room to pick up his phone.

"Lestrade." He said sitting on the edge of his bed and flicking rapidly through the notes in his stolen files. "I was right, wasn't I?"

"Yes Sherlock, Mr Bennett died as a result of inhaling corrosive gas." The detective inspector cleared his throat. "But unless you've had some kind of personality transplant, I can't believe you've phoned me just to gloat."

"Not at all inspector, I want to discuss some reciprocal assistance." Sherlock paused, and then added "And I don't wish my brother to be involved."

**A/N: The murder of Harriet Buswell happened in December 1872 and a Dr Gorrfried Hessel was charged with her murder in January 1873, but I cannot find any reference to whether or not he was found guilty, so I took the liberty of using this case as an 'unsolved' murder.**


	7. The Final Piece Of The Puzzle

Greg Lestrade entered Angelo's, and looked around. From a table at the rear of the restaurant Sherlock made eye contact with him, and motioned to the older man to join him.

Angelo himself handed them a menu each and brought a bottle of his best red wine, and as the proprietor moved away Sherlock poured a glass for each of them and handed one to the Detective Inspector.

"You're probably wondering what this is all about, Lestrade." Leaning back in his seat, the younger man took an appreciative sip of his wine. "However, before I give you any details I need your assurance that my brother will not be informed."

A pained expression crossed Lestrade's face.

"Sherlock, I can't be a party to any revenge stunt you want to pull on your brother."

"I'm not asking you to." Sherlock said patiently. "I'm actually asking for your help, but I'm also asking for a degree of discretion. My mother and brother already think I should be locked away permanently in the Cumberland Clinic."

"Sounds like whatever you're going to ask for may well put my professional competence in question." Lestrade eyed the menu. "You going to eat?"

"No, but don't let that stop you. Angelo is noted for his fine cuisine."

Sherlock beckoned the man over, and Greg placed his order, then sat back and looked at his young companion.

"Why me?"

There was a pause, as the consulting detective considered his answer.

"I trust you Detective Inspector, despite your deplorable decision to spy for my brother." He took another sip of his wine "And I would much rather work with you that with that idiot Gregson."

"You'd go to Gregson?"

"If I have to," Grey eyes met hazel "but I'm reasonably certain that you would rather be the one who solves a crime that has waited over a hundred years to be put to rest."

"You mean the Great Coram Street murder?"

"Ah. Who told you? The duty sergeant in the archives?" He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Or my dear brother?"

Lestrade had the good grace to blush, and Sherlock nodded.

"Never mind. I expected nothing less."

There was a tense silence as the older man's food was served, and as he tucked into what was some of the finest Italian food he had ever tasted, Greg watched Sherlock watching him.

"I need a piece of equipment." The younger man finally made up his mind to open up to the Detective Inspector, sitting forward in his chair and leaning sharp elbows in the table. "I'm fairly certain that your forensic team will have one, or will have the contacts in the archaeological community, they use them all the time"

Lestrade paused with his fork half way to his mouth, then slowly lowered it back down to his plate.

"What type of machinery?"

"The type Geophysicists use to find long buried structures like building foundations – resistivity imagers."

Any actor would have been proud of Lestrade's feigned nonchalance, as he picked up his fork once more, eating with apparent thoughtfulness, as if mulling over the possibility of the acquisition of such equipment. Sherlock however just tolerated the act, waiting.

Mopping up the last of the rich sauce from his plate, Greg finally sat back and refilled his wine glass.

"There's more isn't there?" He looked at Sherlock over the rim of his glass. "You obviously know where you can acquire this machinery; I'm not sure why you need to involve me."

Leaning back into his chair once more, Sherlock drained his glass.

"It's because of the case."

xXx

Mrs Hudson was happy to take the opportunity to visit her sister, and even agreed to stay away long enough for Sherlock to arrange a special surprise for her, despite protestations that it was not necessary for him to do so, even as an apology for his brother's constant disturbances.

She had been gone less than an hour when Greg Lestrade arrived, having given up his precious rest day to satisfy his own curiosity about the case.

"Come in Lestrade." Dressed casually in black jeans, Sherlock led the way to Mrs Hudson's flat. "I'm working down here for the duration."

Greg followed him into the neat and tidy flat, made messy by the spread of papers across the coffee table in the living room. As he sat down he caught sight of the case name at the head of each sheet of paper.

"You really weren't kidding when you said you were looking into the case of John Watson. It's curious though isn't it, that he shares the same name as your new flatmate."

Sherlock smirked.

"I never kid, Lestrade. And there is a reason he shares the same name as my new flatmate – they are related." Even now Sherlock was reluctant to admit to the police officer that there was only one John Watson, and that they were currently looking for his remains.

"And you said crime – back at the restaurant you said solve a hundred year old crime. This file says missing person, and so far as I'm aware it's not a crime to go missing." His eyes were rapidly skimming the notes. "It says here that he had lost his wife and child, and had become a little erratic in his behaviour." Lestrade looked up from the papers. "Poor bastard, that's enough to drive anyone to want to run away."

"And I have had access to some of the Doctor's personal papers…" Sherlock saw Lestrade's eyes widen. "Yes, doctoring is a family profession. Anyway, I've read some of his personal papers, and it would seem he and his flatmate had increasingly been on bad terms."

Handing Lestrade a cup of coffee, he sat opposite him and outlined the story as written in the journal, and then pulled out several sheets from the files and placed them in front of the other man.

"And see here," He pointed to the testimony of the housekeeper. "The day after Dr Watson should have left to meet with an eminent scientist, Coates takes it into his head to build the housekeeper a drying shed for her herbs – and the doctor never returned, if indeed, he ever left."

A frown of concentration creased Greg's forehead.

"The shed is still there?"

"Replaced years ago, but set on the same foundations." Sherlock rose, and led the way through to the back door. "If my theory is correct, I plan to have a new shed built out here for Mrs Hudson,"

"And your theory is that there's a body under there." Greg pointed to the weathered old garden shed. "Why wasn't it discovered when the shed was replaced?"

"I imagine the original had a dirt floor – if you look inside, they've just laid paving slabs and put this up around it. They didn't put in new foundations." He stood for a moment, considering the leaky building in front of them. "When is your expert arriving?"

Greg glanced at his watch.

"Anytime now."

"Right, then I suggest we start moving the stuff out of here."

xXx

By lunchtime Sherlock, Greg, and a young geophysicist by the name of David McPherson stood looking at the fruits of their labours. The shed was empty, and the paving slabs that had been laid as flooring had been pulled up and leant against the side of the house.

On one of the now emptied shelves stood the box that was the 3D resistivity imaging machine, and next to it a laptop and colour printer, both of which looked like they had seen better days.

"They look worse than they are," the young geophysicist grinned. "They tend to get a bit muddy out in field labs." As he spoke, he was spreading out a string of electrodes across the centre of the earth floor.

"How long will it take?" Sherlock examined the equipment with a scientist's fascination; his fingers almost itched to play with the various switches.

"Oh, we should have the results for an area this small with 40 to 45 minutes." David saw the way the other man looked at the machine. "Okay, we're ready – if you could just flick that green switch for me please."

"He's read you like a book Sherlock," Greg chuckled.

"Anyone with half a brain would be interested in technological advances." Sherlock responded, keeping his eyes on the computer screen.

"Yeah, right. Well, I'm going to go make a drink while we're waiting, coffee okay for you two?"

David nodded. "Milk, no sugar for me please."

"Black, two sugars."

Lestrade wandered back into the house, muttering about how a thank you would never go amiss, but still he reached for the mugs and coffee, and set about making drinks.

Carrying out three steaming mugs, he found the two younger men intently watching the computer screen, and he joined them, handing out drinks and then staring at the screen.

In total silence the stood and watched the picture building up on the screen, Sherlock and David with a degree of excitement at finding something, Greg with trepidation – he couldn't get excited about finding the remains of some poor bastard buried in a garden.

The final picture, once David had printed it out, looked like a giant ultrasound picture, with a large misshapen dense area slightly off to one side of the floor area.

"There's something there." David said, as he interpreted the picture for the other men. "This change in colour means that the density of ground here is different to the ground surrounding it. You can't read too much into the shape of the anomaly."

"How deep?" Sherlock asked, peering hard at the printed sheet, holding it so that Greg could see it too.

David looked at the readings on the computer screen, and made a few quick calculations in his head.

"I'd say between two and three feet to the top of whatever's there, and it goes down maybe three feet." He said, turning to his companions. "How do you plan to get it out?"

"Find some shovels I suppose." Greg said, realising that he hadn't given it any previous thought.

"There's a shovel in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, I bought it yesterday." Sherlock stepped out of the shed, walking towards the house. "If either of you want to help, we can take it in turns to dig."

"That's okay for the top layers," David followed him. "But as you get closer to the… to whatever that lump is, you'll need to use smaller trowels and finer tools, to prevent damage being done."

Stopping on the doorstep, Sherlock looked back at the young scientist, who met his eye with a gleam of excitement.

"If you don't mind me staying…" he flicked a glance at the police officer. "I have my archaeological toolkit with me. We could use that."

"Excellent – fetch your tools. The more the merrier."

Greg shook his head at Sherlock's deplorable choice of words as he pulled off his sweatshirt and prepared for some hard labour.

xXx

As the light was fading David scraped the last of the topsoil away from the ragged and rotting blanket that covered their find. He looked at Sherlock, who leaned over and peeled back the dirty red tartan material.

"Oh God." Greg groaned as the skeleton of a man was uncovered.

There was the remains of its clothing, what looked like tweed trousers and tattered pieces of a shirt. It lay on its side, curled around what appeared to be a suitcase, and an old fashioned doctor's bag. In places small amounts of flesh still clung to bone, mainly where it was covered by clothes and pressed against the bags.

Rather out of place among the bones and detritus of a life cut short, there was a glint of silver. Wedged between the ribs was an antique, Victorian scalpel – the murder weapon.

While Greg and David looked on in fascination, Sherlock leant over the remains and placed a gentle hand on the skull.

"Hello John."


	8. New Beginning

**Here we are - the final chapter. Thanks to everyone who had followed, favourite, read and reviewed, and special thanks to everyone who has encouraged me through this particular story - I hope the ending is to your liking :D**

The weeks following the discovery of the body of Dr Watson were chaotic. The police managed to keep most of the details of the discovery out of the press, in deference to Mrs Hudson, who had enough to deal with knowing she had bought a house with a dead body in the garden.

Sherlock had persuaded his bemused brother to have the shed replaced, and moved (at Mrs Hudson's insistence) to the other side of the garden.

Ever sentimental, Martha Hudson insisted on planting a rosemary bush on the site where the body had lain undiscovered for over a century.

Molly Hooper, a recent addition to the pathology department of St Bartholomew's hospital, performed the required tests on the body. The suitcase had contained a set of silver backed hairbrushes, with enough hair still caught in the bristles to glean a DNA profile. The remaining flesh also gave up a DNA profile, confirming a match.

Reluctantly Sherlock had returned the filched files, the fact that he had discovered the missing person so many years after he had disappeared preventing the Yard from banning him completely from their premises. The photograph of John and Harry was used, after a forensic facial reconstruction had re-built the features onto the skull, to identify without doubt that the man from the garden grave was Dr John Watson.

xXx

Sherlock looked at the text for the third time, wondering when his visitor would arrive. Lestrade had said that he had been contacted by a relative of the late Victorian doctor, and the gentleman wanted to come and thank him personally. He had agreed to meet at the laboratory above the morgue at St Bart's.

The steady tap, tap, tapping of a walking stick against the tiled floor alerted him to the approach of the man, and he raised his eyes from his microscope and looked towards the door.

A short, blond haired man walked in a little hesitantly, his eyes flicking quickly around the room before coming to rest on the tall, dark haired man sitting at the bench.

"Mr Holmes?" he asked, and as Sherlock nodded he stepped, forward offering his hand. "John Watson."

He must have seen a frisson of shock cross Sherlock's face, because he smiled a genuine, friendly smile.

"The story of John Watson's mysterious disappearance has been responsible for the name becoming a family tradition. Actually, my great great grandfather was Harry Watson, John's older brother." His eyes flicked around the room once more. "This is all a bit different from my day."

"Of course." Sherlock returned the smile. "And like your great great uncle, you are also an army doctor, recently invalided from….Afghanistan? Or Iraq?"

The smile faded a little. "Afghanistan. How did you know?"

"About you? Your tan. Face and hands, but no tan above the wrists. About the other Dr Watson? I found his journal in my flat."

There was a pause, then

"I suppose you should really have that back. If you'll write down your address I'll have it couriered to you."

"Actually, I'm still looking for accommodation; maybe I can call here again and collect it? When you're next here?"

"How do you feel about the violin" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"And sometimes I don't speak for days, would that bother you? After all, flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Flatmates?" John looked confused.

"Don't you see? It makes sense!" Enthusiasm gleaming from his eyes, Sherlock whirled around, pulling his coat on and tying his staff. "You need somewhere to live, I'm looking for someone to rent the second room in my flat…" he paused, the enthusiasm dying slightly. "Would it bother you? To live in the room your great great uncle lived, and possibly died in?"

For a moment both men seemed to hold their breath, and then John smiled once more.

"Don't believe in ghosts. When can I look at the room?"

They made an arrangement to meet the next evening, and at the appointed time, as John limped up to the door of 221B Baker Street with a backpack slung over his right shoulder, a cab pulled up and Sherlock leapt out.

"Mr Holmes." John stepped forward, hand extended.

"Oh Sherlock, please." The dark haired man gestured towards the door. "Shall we?"

After introducing him to Mrs Hudson, Sherlock led the way upstairs, feeling unusually tense, hoping that the doctor would like the flat.

John had a good look around the flat, his smile growing ever wider as he completed his tour. He turned to look at Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, standing side by side beside the fireplace.

"How soon can I move in?"

"As soon as you like." Sherlock was pleased – he had a good feeling about this, although he would never admit that it felt almost as if it were meant to happen. "Mrs Hudson, how about a cup of tea?"

"Just this once, I'm you landlady, not your housekeeper." That lady chided gently, smiling at the two men.

"And a biscuit, if you have one." John said as she went back downstairs.

"Not your housekeeper." Her voice floated back up to them.

Left alone, John looked at Sherlock with a slight frown.

"What?"

"That Detective Inspector, Lestrade is it? He said you were strange."

"And he's an idiot."

John chuckled. "Actually, I have a gift for you, and I was just hoping that his assessment of your character was right."

"A gift?" He watched as John reached into his backpack, and then his eyes widened as he saw the object that the other man was holding out to him.

"It's great great uncle John. If the police version of the story is to be believed, he chose you to find him – it seemed only right to bring him home to you."

And into Sherlock's slightly shaking hands, John placed a human skull.

**A/N: Rosemary is historically the plant of remembrance.**


End file.
